When I'm Writing A Book, Generally I

I Couldn't Tell If I Was Perspicacious Or Paranoid.

London Is An Endless Skirmish Between Angles And Emptiness.

Art Is Something You Choose To Make... It's A Bringing Together Of... Of Everything Around You Into Something That Makes You More Human, More Khepri, Whatever. More Of A Person.

I Do, However, Feel Reasonably Strongly The Sense That The Job Of A Piece Of Argumentative Scholarly Non-fiction Is Not The Same As The Job Of A Piece Of Fiction.

We Would Never Call Inexplicable Little Insights Hunches, For Fear Of Drawing The Universe's Attention. But They Happened, And You Knew You Had Been In The Proximity Of One That Had Come Through If You Saw A Detective Kiss His Or Her Fingers And Touch His Or Her Chest Where A Pendant To Warsha, Patron Saint Of Inexplicable Inspirations, Would, Theoretically, Hang.